Photography: Trish Jean. Moonrise over Wilsons Promontory
Path in the garden, deep as a long drink,
gently in soft branches gathering force and then gone.
Oh and the moon, the moon, the benches almost
blooming from its slow approach.
The silence, how it throngs. Are you awake up there?
Starry and full of feeling the window faces you.
Hands of the wind transpose to your near countenance
the remotest night.